


One Thing

by MimiWritesHerFandoms



Series: Dean Winchester and Donna Hanscum [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Language, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiWritesHerFandoms/pseuds/MimiWritesHerFandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one night stand with Dean, told from the woman's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thing

 

She’s been watching him all night, most of the women in the bar have been, some of the men too. He’s attractive, damn attractive, in that “too attractive to be real” kind of way that you don’t see very often, just on celebrities and male models; moving around the place as if everyone around him are nothing but planets and moons sucked in by his gravitational pull.

She watches him as he flirts with just about every woman in the bar, every woman except her. She tries not to let it bother her, but it does. It’s not that she’s unattractive, she’s not, but she’s not the woman most men are drawn to, especially men in a bar looking to get laid. That’s why she’s tucked back in the corner, alone.

Not that she’d be with anyone anyway, not here, not in this town, where she doesn’t know a soul, save for those two or three guys that are in the class she’s taking, the one she’s forced to attend if she wants to keep her job. Those men who asked her out for drinks tonight, but only out of obligation or maybe as a joke. The latter wouldn’t surprise her, it happens all the time. She’d declined, blushing, head down as she rushed out of the classroom to her waiting cab, ears straining to hear the rude catcalls that always seemed to follow her.

She takes another sip from the fruity drink in front of her - she can’t remember what it’s called - and picks up another fry from the plate. She soaks it in ketchup before shoving it in her mouth, unladylike, at least according to her mother. She watches him, watches as he flips a beer bottle in his hand, catching it easily before opening it with the ring on his right hand, one hip slung up against the side of the pool table, a pool cue tucked against his shoulder, one corner of his mouth turned up in a decided smirk. He oozes confidence. It makes her jealous.

Two drinks in and she’s feeling it, the room a little spinny, her jacket a bit too warm. She strips it off and lays it next to her in the booth, her eyes seeking him out again. She’s drawn to him and it’s not just because of his looks, it’s his presence. He’s everything she’s not, everything she’s always wanted to be, but never will. Confident, personable, funny, commanding.

Another drink and now she’s blatantly staring, not even trying to hide it. She watches him as he shoots pool, his hands wrapped around the cue, watches as he takes a drink from the bottle of beer balanced on the edge of the table, his full, pink lips wrapping around it. She can’t help but wonder what those hands would feel like on her hips, those lips on her breasts. That thought pushes her to her feet, her skin flushed and red. She stumbles her way to the bathroom, splashes some water on her face, tries to catch her breath and push those thoughts away. She shouldn’t even entertain them; someone like him would never be interested in someone like her. She grimaces at her reflection at the thought. Maybe it was time to go. Enough staring at the attractive stranger and wanting things she could never have.

She’s halfway back to her table hidden in the corner, eyes downcast, hoping not to see him and get distracted, before she notices that someone is sitting at the table she just vacated. The waitress is there, setting something in front of someone that isn’t her. She huffs to herself, mutters her favorite curse under her breath and hopes whoever it is will be nice enough to hand over her jacket without any fuss.

She’s right behind the waitress when the tiny, uniformed girl steps to the side, nearly running into her. She mumbles “oops, sorry,” automatically even though it wasn’t her fault. Years of habit. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself to ask for her jacket. She’s always terrible at things like this, needs to work on it, especially now, hates making eye contact, hates to see the automatic judgment in someone’s eyes, hates the sound of her own voice, fearful, needy, whiny. She opens her mouth to speak, get it over with, forcing herself to make eye contact with the person who commandeered her table. When she sees who it is, she snaps her mouth shut, biting the tip of her tongue.

The smirk is even more disarming up close, the face too pretty to be real. “Heart stoppingly gorgeous” is the thought that jumps into her head right before her brain takes a permanent vacation. His eyes are green, but not just green, they’re that unbelievable shade of emerald that makes you question whether or not you should even use such a mundane word as “green” to describe them. He’s got perfect, straight white teeth and those lips, well, when his tongue snaked out to lick at them she felt heat pool deep in the pit of her stomach.

“Hi,” he grinned, stuffing a french fry slathered in ketchup into his mouth. It should be gross, off putting, unattractive, but for some reason he makes it look sexy.

“H-hi?” It’s a question more than a greeting, because she still can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing sitting there at her table, eating her french fries. It’s probably some cosmic joke or something. She’s sure that any second some leggy redhead will appear and slide into the booth beside him. She needs to get out of here before she has to see it. 

“C-could you hand me that jacket?” She points helplessly at her jacket now lying beneath a worn, brown, leather jacket.

He glances down, then back at her, shrugging. “Why don’t you have a drink with me? Then we can talk about you getting your jacket back.”

She actually did that thing you read about or see in sitcoms where she looks behind her to see if he’s talking to someone else, but seeing as how there’s no one behind her, he has to be talking to her. She shifts nervously from foot to foot, and it occurs to her that maybe she doesn’t need the jacket that badly. She takes a step back, briefly contemplating running for the door.

“Um…” She doesn’t know what to say. She’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop, the laughter to start, for him to tell her he’d made a mistake. But he’s looking at her with an honest, earnest expression on his face, so she takes a deep breath and slides into the booth on the opposite side of the table. 

He slides one of the fruity drinks in front of her, a brand new, full to the brim drink. She blushes when she realizes that he knew what she was drinking  _ and _  he’d ordered her one. She takes a sip, eyes downcast, unable to look at the sheer beauty of a man sitting across from her.

They talk, him more than her, while she sits in awe of the fact that he’s sitting there talking to her, not one of the other women in the bar, women he should be far more interested in, who are far more attractive than her. But he was there, at her table, drinking a beer and talking to her, asking her about herself, and nodding in all the right places, like he might actually be listening to her. 

He slides out of the booth fifteen, twenty minutes later, and she figures he’s had enough of her mumbled answers and furtive glances, probably realized that he could find someone prettier, skinnier, more his type. But he merely steps around the table and slips in beside her, his arm resting on the back of the booth, the tips of his fingers brushing against her shoulder.

“I saw you watching me,” he says, his tone even and calm, as if this was a conversation he had everyday. His thigh is resting against hers and she can feel the heat radiating from him. “I was wondering why you didn’t come talk to me? Seeing as how you seemed so interested in me.”

She shrugs, heat flooding her cheeks. “I-I don’t show,” she stammers. “Sh-shy, I guess.”

“No reason to be shy, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.” He winks, squeezes her shoulder and smiles, his tongue slipping out to lick at his bottom lip. 

She giggles, hoping it sounds flirty and nonchalant, though it probably sounds breathy and weird because the thought of that mouth anywhere on her body makes her stomach flip and her heart do a weird double clutch in her chest. She feels sweat break out across her brow and she has to remind herself to breathe.

He moves closer, his arm now on her shoulders, not on the booth anymore, the entire left side of his body melded to her right side. He’s drinking his beer, talking about his brother who’s away at school, acting like everything is completely normal, all while she’s sweating and shaking and wondering what alternate universe she stepped into when she came out of the bathroom.

“What do you say we get out of here?”

The question throws her, makes her choke on her drink a little, spitting it back into the glass. He mumbles something about no pressure, his arm sliding off of her shoulder. She clamps a hand down on his thigh, probably too tight, but he smiles encouragingly.

“No, you, uh, took me by surprise,” she says, shaking her head so hard her hair flies in her face. “I mean...there probably isn’t a woman in this place that wouldn’t kill to leave with you and most of them are far better looking than I am...and...well, not -” She gestures vaguely to herself, not wanting to say the word, she never wants to say the word, but he’ll understand what she means. It’s written all over her. She looks up at him, really looks at him, wanting to see the truth in his eyes. She’s always been able to see the truth in a person’s eyes; it’s why she’s so good at her job.

He’s smiling, tenderly, and to her surprise he brushes a quick kiss across her lips. He puts his hand on hers under the table, the hand on his thigh, and squeezes it. “Let me tell you one thing. You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass, sweetheart. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

She finds herself nodding at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her stomach somewhere in her throat. He doesn’t hesitate, pulling her from the booth, reaching past her to grab their jackets, dropping cash to the table. She stumbles after him, her fingers loosely clasped with his. She’s grateful for the cool air that hits her skin as they step outside.

Now that they’re out of the bar, she’s feeling a bit more brazen. She points vaguely in the direction of her motel. “I’m staying up the street,” she says helpfully.

She barely remembers the walk to the motel, she’s too absorbed with the way he’s holding her hand, how attentive he is, how normal and right this feels. She feels her nerves dissipating with every step, with every word he says. He takes her key from her hand and opens the door for her, holding it open and gesturing for her to go in ahead of him, hitting the light switch to turn on the light by the bed. He puts his hand on the small of her back as she passes him, sending a shiver down her spine.

He moves confidently, calmly, locking the door behind him, stripping off his jacket and following her into the room, always with a hand on her - hip, arm, waist, back. They stop, right at the foot of the bed and he smiles at her, cups her face in his hand, kissing her. He sits down, pulling her down beside him, his arm around her waist, his hand still on her face, sliding around to the back of her head, his nose brushing against hers as he catches his lips in hers. Emboldened by his hands on her and his apparent eagerness, she reaches out and puts a hand to his chest, pushing into him, fingers digging a bit into the fabric of his shirt.

He must like it, because he makes a kind of growling sound in the back of his throat and the next thing she knows, they’re stretched out on the bed and he’s hovering over her, his knee between her legs, his weight on her, though not suffocatingly so, enough to know he’s there. 

She likes it, the feel of his body on hers, the way his hands feel as he pushes her shirt up a little bit. She likes the way he breaks off the kiss long enough to see if she’s okay with what he’s doing, waits for her nod, for her permission. His hands are calloused, rough, scratching her skin as he pushes her shirt higher, past the edge of her bra and over her head, tossing it aside. 

She waits for the inevitable, waits for him to turn off the lights, like every other guy she’s ever been with, once they see her without her clothes, once they see the extra weight she carries around her middle, see that underneath the clothes she not thin. She unconsciously holds her breath, knowing it’s coming.

But it never does, instead his lips are sliding from her jaw down her neck and over her shoulders. It’s sweet, tender, perfect. He’s murmuring, something she hadn’t noticed before, murmuring words that make her hot with need, make her skin burn. He unhooks her bra, pulling it down her arms. When his lips wrap around her breast, her back arches and she moans, loudly.

She’s quick to apologize, embarrassed that she would do that, but he’s smiling, kissing her, his hand now splayed across her breast, his fingers tracing the nipple, bringing it to attention. He reaches over his head, grabs his shirt and yanks it off, tossing it aside. Jesus, now they’re skin to skin and he’s got his hips nestled between her legs and he’s rocking forward with every kiss to her hot skin, pressing the line of her zipper hard against her clit, pleasurable tingles working their way through her.

She’s not quite sure how it happens, she’s so lost in everything that’s happening, in the heat brewing between them, that she can’t remember how both of them ended up with their clothes piled on the floor, and his hand between her legs, two fingers deep, his knuckle brushing over her g-spot, making her tremble and gasp. His tongue is deep in her mouth, his fingers pumping and twisting, thrusting. She’s unashamedly grinding down on those thick, long fingers, and the sounds coming from her are downright sinful, but Jesus, if he can get her going like this with just his fingers, what’s it going to feel like when he fills her with the hard length she feels brushing against her leg?

She’s always been shy when it came to sex, always been afraid to let herself go, the years of put-downs, sex in the dark, and ignorant assholes treating her like shit weighing on her, stealing her enjoyment. But this is different, like nothing she’s ever experienced. Every sound she makes, every tilt of her hips, every time she digs her fingers into his back or his arms seems to spur him on. She’s come so many times she’s lost count. It’s freaking amazing. 

When he finally enters her, on his knees in front of her, one of her legs pulled around his hip, his hands tight on her hips, he lets out a long, satisfied groan, slamming into her several times, then pausing, holding himself still inside of her. She moans, eyes squeezed shut, shaking, wanting to scream at him to move but also wanting to stay right there, frozen in this moment with him deep inside her, the connection so real, so visceral that it’s like she was always meant to be in his arms. He tilts his hips forward, yanking her tight against him at the same time, and she lets out a strangled cry, then she’s gone, the orgasm rolling through her in crazy waves.

It all dissolves into something indescribable after that, bodies intertwined, hands all over each other, greedy kisses, moving, thrusting, a voracious want growing and growing until they’ve worked themselves into a frenzy and she’s coming so hard she swears she sees stars. He’s right behind her, holding her in a bruising grip as his own orgasm takes him. They fall back to the bed, exhausted.

He pushes up behind her, his back to her chest, hot, sweaty, both of them smelling like sex and alcohol, his lips brushing against the soft skin between her shoulderblades, his hand on her stomach, fingers circling her belly button. He stays like that for a long time, his breathing slow and even. She doesn’t move, fearful he’ll get up and leave and she doesn’t want that, she’s enjoying lying there in the circle of his arms, that odd feeling of  _ right _  still flitting through her. She closes her eyes.

She wakes up when the bathroom light comes on, propping herself up on one elbow. She squints, waiting for her eyes to adjust. He’s sitting on a chair by the bathroom door, lacing up his boots. He smiles when he sees her looking at him.

“Hey,” he smiles. “Sorry I woke you.”

“S’ok,” she murmurs. She doesn’t know what to say, if anything. She knew that this night would eventually end, it shouldn’t bother her that is. 

He finishes with his boots, then crouches next to the bed. He pushes her hair off of her face and gently kisses her forehead. “Thanks for tonight,” he smiles. “It was fun.”

She can only nod, her heart in her throat. He kisses her again and it makes her stomach twist, in a good way. She wants to ask him to stay, but she knows she won’t. She knew going into this it was only one night.

He gives her one last smile as he stands at her motel room door putting on his leather jacket. “See ya, sweetheart.” The door opens and he’s gone.

It’s only then that she realizes that she didn’t get his name.

* * *

“Sheriff Donna?”

She pulls herself from the memory of that night, takes the file from her detective and straightens her uniform. She can do this, she can act normal, act as if her brain hasn’t gone off on some crazy tangent, pulling out memories from years ago, the one thing he told her always forefront in her mind.

She’d recognized him the minute he walked in. He’s older, rougher around the edges, his eyes a lot more knowledgeable, like he’d seen more than any man should, dealt with more than any man should ever have to. She feels the heat rush to her cheeks as she walks towards him and the man he’s with, the one with the long, brown hair.  She tells herself she shouldn’t feel like this, it is in fact ridiculous to think he would remember her, after all, it’s been more than ten years since that night. And while she remembers every single minute of it, she is sure he doesn’t.

His eyes drift over her as she approaches and he smiles, the smile she sees almost every night in her memory-dreams, but there is no familiarity, no recognition on his face. She tries not to let it disappoint her, though it does, a little. She puts on a happy face and holds out the file in her hand.

“Thanks for your patience, agents. Coroner’s report finally came in.”

 


End file.
